


Doubt Thou the Stars are Fire

by I_Am_221B_Locked



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Idiots in Love, M/M, Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-13
Updated: 2018-08-21
Packaged: 2019-06-26 21:04:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15671259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/I_Am_221B_Locked/pseuds/I_Am_221B_Locked
Summary: After Sherlock returns unexpectedly to 221B, both he and John must come to terms for what this means in their lives now, as both men left things unsaid before the Fall





	1. Chapter 1

**Chapter One**

“Why did you do it?” John glares across the table at Sherlock, but there is something else behind his eyes. Hurt, that much is obvious, but there’s something deeper there that Sherlock can’t quite figure out.

_ Because I love you, _ Sherlock thinks but doesn’t say. Some things are better left unsaid.  _ Because you are my whole world, and I would do anything for you. _

__ “Because Moriarty had to be stopped,” is what comes out instead, and Sherlock swallows past the strange lump in his throat. The guilt is heavy, crushing him, suffocating him, and Sherlock doesn’t know how much longer he’ll last under its weight. There’s a pause, and Sherlock waits, hopes for John to say something, anything at all, because anything is better than the silence that has settled over 221B for the past hour.

“You made me watch.” John’s voice sounds hollow, dead, empty. Sherlock could think of a dozen different words to describe John’s voice, and none of them too pleasant. “You made me watch you.” A crack appears in the voice now; it is broken and fragile, not the strong  reassuring tone that Sherlock so desperately misses.

Sherlock feels sick. How could he have done this to John, his best friend, the man he cares for—no, loves so deeply?  _ You didn’t have a choice, there was no other way, _ he reminds himself, over and over, but it’s not enough, it's not enough.

“ I’m sorry,” he tries, but like the voice in his head, it's not enough. Sherlock doesn’t know how he can ever repair the damage he’s caused.  _ It had to be done.  _

A quiet noise. Sherlock realizes that John is crying, his shoulders shaking, his face covered. Very carefully, quietly, Sherlock rises from the chair and creeps around the edge of the table. He opens his arms and stands, hoping, waiting. John turns his head and stands, leaning forward, burying his face in Sherlock’s shoulder. Wrapping a hand around John’s neck, Sherlock thinks,  _ I would do it all again. The Fall, Serbia, everything, if it meant that I could have you back, safe and happy. _ They stay in the kitchen, holding each other for a long time.

 

………………………………

When Sherlock appears at the doorway to 221B, John doesn’t know what to think. His mind blanks out, because it’s not possible, he was  _ gone,  _ he was  _ dead _ . John saw him himself. 

He remembers how Sherlock sounded on the phone that day. How did he sound John?  _ He sounded heartbroken _ , John thinks. He remembers how time seemed to stand still as Sherlock threw his phone behind him and leaned over the edge of St. Barts, and fell to the earth. He remembers the blood. Blood on the pavement. Blood on Sherlock’s face, in his hair. Too much blood. He remembers Sherlock’s beautiful blue eyes, wide and unseeing. Now John wonders if Sherlock is really here at all, if he just hasn’t finally gone mad with grief. It’s possible, he thinks. Sherlock apologizes over and over, and it’s too much, too much at once. John has to sit down.

An hour has passed when John finally musters the will to speak. 

“Why did you do it?” He’s angry, he realizes, angry at Sherlock for leaving him, for giving him so much, and then, in an instant, ripping it all away from him. He loves him, John realizes. Not realizes. Recognizes. John knows that he would do anything for this man, this wonderful, beautiful, genius man currently sitting across from him at the table, his eyes full of guilt and sorrow. 

“Because Moriarty had to be stopped,” says the man across from him, and there’s something behind that sentence, something he’s not saying. John can see it in his eyes.  _ Some things are better left unsaid, but not this. What are you hiding, Sherlock _ ?

“You made me watch you.” John takes a deep breath. “You made me watch.” A crack in his voice now. A pause.

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock says, and John can hear the pain behind those words, the guilt, and the self hatred. He takes a deep breath. It’s too much to take all at once. His eyes are watering now, and he places his head in his hand, as the feelings he’s been bottling up for the past two years threaten to spill out. The anger, the grief, the overwhelming feeling that if he had arrived just a bit earlier, he could have saved Sherlock somehow. His shoulders begin to shake as the tears spill over. Out of the corner of his eye, he senses movement, and knows that Sherlock has moved to to stand beside him. His arms are outstretched and John rises, leans forward into Sherlock, feeling Sherlock’s warmth radiating from his body, and when Sherlock wraps his arms around John, he knows that this is real.

 

……………………………………………..

“John, what are you doing?” Sherlock stands in the kitchen staring at John curiously. 

“Getting ready to head back to my flat.”

“Your...you mean you weren’t staying here?” 

“No, I moved out after...after…” John can’t seem to get the words out. Sherlock is confused. Beyond confused, actually. The flat at 221B had been everything to them, it was their home.  _ Was, _ Sherlock reflects sadly. He wants to say something, anything, but the words aren’t coming, they can’t come and Sherlock knows exactly why. He watches as John steps out the door, watches him descend the 17 stairs, and as John reaches the door to leave, a sound escapes Sherlock’s throat. He sees John pause, and resists the urge to call him back, to beg him to stay at 221B, to come back, to make things normal again. But there is no normal now, and he can't go back, so he lets John step out the door, hears the click of the lock behind him.

On the sofa, Sherlock thinks. John, in a new jacket, a new scarf, and a horrible mustache that needs to die in a fire. John, in his wooly jumpers and easy smiles. John, silent, and angry, and hurt. John, strong, and confident, and kind. When did one become the other?  _ When you fell _ , whispers the voice in his head. There’s another voice there, a nagging whisper at the back of his mind, a sickening slither of promise.  _ I’ll burn the heart out of you _ , it whispers. No, not there, Sherlock. You saw him, he blew his own brains out. Dead, gone forever. Is the old John gone too? Sherlock wonders. No, I’ll bring him back, and I’ll see the laughter in his eyes again, the smile come easily to his face. I could drown in his eyes, Sherlock thinks, the endless depths of blue cobalt that seem to turn grey in the light, and dark in the soft light of the fireplace. He stays on the couch and thinks for another hour or so about what could have been, what should have been.

 

……………………………………………………

He can’t do this. He can’t stand there, looking at him, suit pressed and pristine as always, looking at him with those eyes. The eyes that could turn icy cold at any moment, yet could be soft and wide with wonder in another. John thinks on the way home to his flat. Thinks about what Sherlock’s return means for him. For  _ them _ . No. There was no them. They were never together, never more than friends.  _ We could have been _ . He had been about to say something to Sherlock, but never had. He’d had so many opportunities to do so. He can remember the last time he was going to say something.

_ It was at dinner. Sherlock had offered to cook. Sherlock never cooked. Sherlock’s cooking was delicious and not at all deadly. That John could tell anyways. It was after a few glasses of wine when John began to notice. Everything was perfect, the food was delicious and Sherlock looked radiant. He was laughing aloud with John, and John got to see the side of Sherlock no one else did. The side Sherlock hid from everyone else. And John realized that he loved him. _

_ “Sherlock, there’s something I meant to say, always, but I never have.”  _

_ Sherlock looked at him, his eyes soft and kind, curious. “Yes John?” _

_ “I—oh, bugger, what I mean to say is,” _

_ “Yes John?” _

_ “What I mean to say is that you are the best man I have ever met, the most human, human being, the wisest person I have ever known, and that means so much to me Sherlock. You have no idea how much.” The other words were stuck in his throat. He tried to push them out, but they wouldn’t come. _

_ ‘Thank you, John.” _

_ John silently cursed himself for not saying more. For not telling him, but the night was still perfect, and John went to bed with a smile on his face. There will be other chances, he told himself. Two days later, Sherlock jumped from the roof of Saint Bart’s and took every last chance with him _ .

Until now. 

John knows he can’t do it. Not now. Not after so much. He can’t do it.

He enters his small plain flat, not unlike the one before he met Sherlock. He shakes his head. Too many memories. The gun in the drawer, only an apple for breakfast every day. Sometimes not even that. Why bother, he had told himself. What’s the point?

Lost chances, lost love, John contemplates. Funny how things work out.  _ I still love him _ John thinks,  _ but I can never have him _ . He can’t go back to the way things were, he can't. It hurts too much. His mind screams back at him. Go, it says, go back to 221B and say it. Say the words. John can’t. He goes to sleep with thoughts of could have and should haves running through his head.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

 

Sherlock is looking up at a roof. The carved roof of Saint Bart’s to be exact. He is holding a phone. There is a figure on top of the roof. John. No, Sherlock thinks desperately, I should me up there, me, me, not John. Never John.

“The pool, Sherlock. It was true.” John is crying, his voice muffled and shaky. “I was working with him Sherlock, it's all true, everything he told you.”

Sherlock shakes his head. No, no, this is wrong, all wrong. John does not work for Moriarty, no. John is not a traitor.

“No,” he says , his voice cracking, “You were ready to die for me. You shot the cabbie, and killed the circus man, and were ready to die with me.”

“I’m sorry Sherlock.”

Sherlock shakes his head, starts to walk towards the building.

‘No! Stay exactly where you are. Don't move. Please...will you do this for me?” An echo of words once spoken.

Sherlock pauses. “What is this John? Stop it, please, stop it.”

“Goodbye, Sherlock.”

“JOHN!” Sherlock screams, tries to drown out the panic bursting inside of him.

John seems to fall in slow motion, hitting the ground with a sickening thud.

‘MOVE!” Sherlock bolts towards the base of the hospital. _Too late, too late_ , his mind screams, but Sherlock refuses to listen. There is no homeless network this time, no magic tricks. He reaches John. Blood on the pavement. Blood on a a beautiful face. Blood streaming into sandy hair. Too much blood, too much blood. The cobalt eyes are staring sightlessly at him. Sherlock takes a hand in his, feels the wrist for a pulse. There is none.

“NO!” Sherlock bolts upright in a panic, sticky with sweat. His room is suffocating, its too hot, too empty, he can’t think. Just a nightmare, he tells himself. Not real, not real. John is safe at home in his flat. Moriarty is dead, his network disabled forever. Sherlock stumbles out if his room, shaky and disoriented. He makes himself a cup of tea at 3:00 in the morning and sits down in his chair until Mrs. Hudson announces herself around 9:00 which a “Hoo hoo, are you decent Sherlock?” A pause. Silence. Mrs. Hudson lets herself in.

“Oh, I’m just so happy to see you here dear, sitting in your chair, like you always used to.” Sherlock smiles at her, but his mind is racing. He wants John to be in his armchair across from him, squashing the Union Jack cushion underneath him, reading the newspaper with a cup of tea. He wants John to make him toast, and to find cases, and to write his blog in the annoying way he does, typing with two fingers in a way that makes Sherlock’s eye twitch.

“I’ve brought up some biscuits if you like dear, I’ll just set them here on the counter. Are you going to unpack your things? I had them boxed up after, well..you know.” She trails off, uncertain.

“Yes, Mrs. Hudson, after I faked my death, causing mass emotional turmoil to the ones I love most.” He freezes the moment the words are out of his mouth. Love. Does he love John Watson? Cares for him, certainly. But love? Sentiment. He shakes off the thought. _You died for him,_ the slippery part of his mind whispers. _You were ready to jump off a building for him._ Yes, Sherlock decides. He loves John Watson. Another thought crosses his mind. John can’t know, can’t ever know. If John knew, he would be horrified. Sherlock vows to keep his feelings under control. He then thinks, _high -functioning sociopath, my arse_. Frowning, he grabs one of Mrs. Hudson’s biscuits from the counter. Then another.

Mrs. Hudson doesn’t seem to notice his mistake. As she goes to leave she stops at the door. Hesitates.

“Oh, Sherlock, you should have seen him, after. He would come and visit, and we would talk. He mostly talked about you.” How did he talk about me, Mrs. Hudson? “He talked like you were his whole world.” She turns and walks away. Sherlock eats half of the biscuits and wonders at the meaning of her words.

……………………………………………….

John had decided to move back into 221B against all his better instincts. He also shaves off his mustache. Sherlock had been looking at it last night like it was the devil incarnate. It’s part of his old life anyway. His life in between. In between what? In between Sherlock, he thinks. He starts to pack. He sees a sleek black car pull into the driveway, and sighs. Mycroft. Of course. He should have been expecting this, should have known that the brother would turn up eventually. A knock at the door.

“Ah,  John, already up, I see. Moving back to Baker Street already?” The British government eyes the box packed halfway with John’s meager possessions.

“Nice to see you too, Mycroft,” John says and gets back to packing. Mycroft remains in the doorway, a silent reminder that if John screws this up he is most certainly as good as dead.

“You must have had quite a shock yesterday,” the government says, “I imagine that you'll want to have some time to reacquaint yourselves before we get down to business.”

“Business?” John does not want any business right now. What he wants, he realizes, is dinner at 221B again, quiet nights by the fireplace. He wants the sense of familiarity between him and Sherlock back, their easy friendship.

“Well, I suppose I might as well tell you now. Sit down, John.”

John does not sit.  “Tell me,” he says.

“There's an underground terrorist network operating in London at this very moment. Sherlock is aware of this, and I assume you'd like to help him, Doctor Watson.”

John continues packing in silence, a dozen thoughts going through his mind. He wants this, wants his old life back. What are you scared of, John? _I'm scared it won't be the same. That he'll have changed somehow, and when I look closer at him, I won't recognize him._ No, John. You'll get him back, and you'll see those eyes you want to drown in forever, see the left side of his mouth quirk up in that smile, hear his laugh again.

Movement. John looks up and sees Mycroft walking towards him. The British government picks up John's box of things and take them outside. Sets them in the sleek black car John knows so well. John follows, slides onto the leather seats and closes the door behind him.

Anthea is there. Did she know? John wonders. Did Mycroft know? Mycroft had to have known. He was his brother, after all. _Why didn't you tell me?_ John wants to shout, _Why did you do it? Make me watch?_ John knows it's not Sherlock fault, not really. Who's fault, John? Moriarty, he thinks. _I'll burn the heart out of you_ , Moriarty had said. Was John Sherlock’s heart? Mrs. Hudson was on that list too, John thinks. So was Lestrade. What makes you think you're any different. He loved you, certainly, but as he loved Lestrade? Mrs. Hudson? No, don't go there John. The car comes to a stop. The door is wrenched open.

“John?” The voice is confused, hesitant. “Why are you here?” Sherlock sounds hopeful and a bit frightened at the same time. Like he thinks he’s hoping for too much. John turns to look at him. Sherlock, in his blue dressing gown and inside out t-shirt is standing barefoot outside the door to 221B. He looks different than John remembers. He's skinnier, and his hair is shorter. That's to be expected though. No one looks the same after two years.

“I'm coming home,” John says and goes around the back to grab his box.

……………………………………

When Sherlock sees the black car pull up to the curb he immediately flings himself down the stairs. John, John, John, he thinks.  He bursts outside onto the pavement. Wrenches the door to the car open. John, in his jacket with the leather patches, the horrible oatmeal jumper. Sherlock has never loved that jumper more. John, sitting there, looking nervous and excited all at once.

“John?” The mustache is gone, he realizes. Is the other John gone too? The one with the long coat, the new scarf, the sadness in his eyes.  No. That John is still there. Sherlock thinks he will never really go away. _I did that,_ he thinks sadly.

“I’m coming home,” says John, and it’s almost the best set of three words he’s ever heard out of John’s mouth. He doesn’t think he’ll ever hear their others though. The ones he can’t say. The ones he has to say.

“Home,” Sherlock repeats.

“Yes, well. If- if that’s alright with you.”  
           Of course it is, John. Stay. Please.

Sherlock just smiles, and opens the door, lets John pass him with his small box. Up the seventeen steps. Into his flat. No. Their flat. 221B has always been their flat. He heads up the stairs.

When Sherlock arrives upstairs he finds John standing in the middle of the room. Like he’s waiting for something. Or thinking. John turns.

“Sherlock, where were you these past two years? What happened?”

Don’t go there John. You don’t want to know.

A lengthy pause.

“Sherlock?” A gentle prompt. John doesn’t know. The question is innocent, curious. It’s natural to assume that John want to know where Sherlock’s been. Of course.

“I was in Serbia, John. Disabling the last of Moriarty’s network.” Sherlock can’t say any more. He can’t. _If I look back I am lost_. The memories would drag him down, suffocate him, drown him, and he might never resurface.

“Awful long time to be there.” Yes. too long. A silence. Finally-

“Do you need help unpacking?”  John nods, and together they start to unpack John’s meager possessions.

“Of course,” John says, “I’ll need to go back for my clothes and things, but everything else is here.”

There’s a small container at the bottom of the box. John has done his best to hide it under his books, a small lamp, but it’s there all the same. Sherlock stares at it, but can see only a small corner. Not enough. John sees him looking, and shoves it farther under a hideous jumper, one of the few he’d managed to pack before Mycroft showed up.

“Well, I’ll just take the rest of these things up, shall I?” John stands, picking up the box. Sherlock stares. There’s a tea kettle at the top of the box.

“Alright, John.”

John is back at 221B. Everything is as it should be. Everything is the same. Everything is changed.

……………………………………

His room looks the same as he left it. The bed is made, the curtains drawn. The wardrobe in the corner. Other than that, the room is empty. John sets the box on his bed. He pushes aside the hideous jumper. A shampoo bottle.

Sherlock’s shampoo.

 _I loved this smell on you. No-not loved, love._ John opens the bottle and inhales the scent. Posh git. The shampoo retails for £40 a pop.  Sherlock is alive and well, as far as John can tell. No. Something has changed. Something Sherlock’s not telling him.

 _What happened in Serbia? Why won’t you tell me?_ Because it’s none of your business, John.

John tucks the shampoo bottle under the jumper in his wardrobe. He had almost taken the persian slipper too. They wouldn’t let him have the scarf. John had begged them. _Please,_ he’d said _. Please let me have it._ John was kicked out of New Scotland Yard.

Say the words, his mind says. No, too soon, too late, the other part screams back. Tool late.

John makes himself go back downstairs. Sherlock is eating a biscuit and unpacking his microscope, his test tubes. He’s changed into his suit.

“I assume Mycroft has informed you of the current situation?”

“The underground terrorist network, yeah. Why?”

“Rats, John, rats!”

“Rats?” An image of a terrorist group consisting of small rodents crosses    John’s mind. He shakes it off.

“There’s people in this city that I need to keep track of. Their every movement, their daily routines. If something changes, I have to know. My homeless network is helping me.”

“Did they help you fake your death too?” The words are out of his mouth before he can stop himself. He instantly regrets them. _He did what he had to_ . Would you rather him be dead John? _Of course not_. Would you rather be dead? John almost wishes so. But he doesn’t.

“Yes. they helped.”

Of course. The biker, the immediate flood of people surrounding Sherlock’s body. Was it really his body? It had to have been. John had seen his face. That face had haunted a whole other set of nightmares.

“I see.”

“I’m sorry John.”

John says nothing. He understands why he did it, god, he does. He is overwhelmingly relieved that Sherlock is alive. But John can’t say the words. Not yet.

“I’ll help you,” he says instead, and Sherlock nods like he understands what John is thinking.


	3. Chapter 3

John is home. Of that Sherlock is certain. But he still hasn’t fully forgiven him. Sherlock can see it in his eyes, the way he goes out of the way to avoid touching him. The other day he was handed the newspaper. John flinched when their fingers brushed, like he was afraid Sherlock would disappear before his eyes. Sherlock doesn’t really blame him. Watching your best friend leap off a building and then return perfectly intact two years later does that to people. It breaks something inside him to see John like this.

That evening, when they are eating dinner, Sherlock takes a moment to look at John. To really look at him.

John is decidedly thinner than two years ago, his hair a little bit greyer. There are lines in his face that weren’t there before. Sherlock remembers Mycroft’s words.

_He’s got on with his life._

_What life? I’ve been away._

Exactly, Sherlock thinks, what life? This John Watson is so different than the John Watson he met that day at Saint Bart’s. This John Watson is the same. Sherlock healed John Watson in a day, but John Watson is broken again. Sherlock aims to fix that.

At least John has agreed to help him with the underground terrorist network.

 

A disappearance. Lord Moran got onto a train one night and never got off. The rat has made a move.

Even with all the digging, they come up with nothing. There’s something right in front of him, but he can’t see it, and it’s driving him mad. John finds him on the couch with a nicotine patch on his arm, his hands folded under his chin, eyes closed. He hears a sigh, then,

“Well, I’m off to Tesco for some more milk. Need anything? And take that patch off.”

Some eyeballs would be nice, but Sherlock has the funniest feeling that John is not about to go and find some for him. So he stays silent.

“Right then, well I’m off.”

Footsteps fading as they descend the steps, the front door closing.

Silence. Sherlock thinks.

Moran could not have gotten off that train, Sherlock is sure of it. And he certainly didn’t become invisible. He had to have disconnected a car somewhere. Yes! That’s what’s been staring him in the face this whole time. Not an underground network,  _an underground network._ It’s so obvious Sherlock wants to kick himself. He lays on the couch and thinks. Twenty minutes later, his phone buzzes.

A sigh, then he picks it up.

_Save souls Now!_

_John of James Watson?_

_Saint or sinner?_

_James or John?_

_The more is less._

A skip code.

_Save John Watson. Saint James the Less_

Sherlock tries not to panic and fails. Not John, not after everything. A shadowy face swims in front of Sherlock’s eyes. No! Moriarty is dead, he’s gone. But then who has John?

Sherlock flings himself down the stairs. He has to get to Saint James. The panic inside him is almost overwhelming, and he has to struggle to breathe. He has to calm down. He pauses. Takes a deep breath and explodes out of the flat into the night air.

  


Milk, eggs, bread. A chicken would be nice, John thinks. They have room in the fridge for once, and chicken would be delightful. Maybe he’ll make Sherlock cook tonight. He picks up the chicken and heads towards the checkout. There are two men standing at the end of the row of chip and pin machines. John ignores them, heads out onto the street. Thoughts of Sherlock’s cooking fill his head. The man really was an amazing cook. Chemistry, Sherlock would say, if John asked.

A bump, as a man pushes past him. Rude. John turns.

“Excuse you,” he says. Then he feels the needle in his neck.

John turns, raises an elbow, but his movements are slow, his vision quickly blurring. Vaguely, he registers the chicken go flying as his bags drop to the ground. Another kick. A feeble attempt.

“Sher…” and he’s out.

..........................................................  


Standing in the middle of the road Sherlock doesn’t know what to do. He has gotten another text. 10 minutes. He has 10 minutes to save John. But how? His mind races. Not a car, certainly not a cab. There! A motorbike is raring down the street towards him. Sherlock plants his feet and raises his hand. Seconds later, he’s speeding towards Saint James. He can get there in ten minutes, Sherlock knows it. Traffic is slow though, crawling on the streets. Sherlock wants to scream. He needs an alternative route His mind races as he exits the motorway.

.............................................  


John can’t breathe. He’s being suffocated, crushed. He can’t feel any of his limbs, either. Whatever they had given him must have been pretty good. Dimly, he recognizes the sounds of people talking, laughing. He smells fire.

He struggles to make a sound and manages a faint groan.

“It won’t light,” a voice says, “woods too damp. I'll go get something to help it along.” The voice came from directly next to John.

Light? Light what? John takes in his surroundings as best he can. He’s lying on some evergreen branches, and cracks of light are filtering through something. Wood, he realizes. Sticks, and logs, and boards.

A bonfire. He’s in a bonfire. John tries to quell the panic growing inside of him. Tries to summon another shout. Louder, this time. It’s not enough though. HEs going to die here, in this fire, burned alive. At least Sherlock’s death was easier. Was it easier John? _Probably not,_ hon thinks. _I bet it ate him up inside, leaving like that, without telling anyone. I bet it still is._ _I’m too late again,_ he thinks. No, John, fight it. John manages another half yell. There is smoke seeping in the sides now, making his eyes burn. He tries again and realizes that no one will hear him. He’s strangely calm, now. _I’m going to die,_ he thinks. _I’m going to die, and I will never see Sherlock again, never see his smile, or hear his laugh.I’m never going to tell him._ Strangely it is one of the only things he regrets. _Will he be like me after his death? Will he sit and stare at nothing for hours? Will he imagine that I am there, next to him?_ John hears a torch being lit. He tries for another yell, and it’s louder this time, but too late, too late.

  
............................................................  


At a stoplight, Sherlock receives another text.

_State of execution. You’ve got two more minutes._

Sherlock can see Saint Paul’s. He speeds towards it as the light turns green, rounding the corner. He sees a bonfire go up in flames.

_Oh my god._

There are tears in his eyes. Horror courses through him. Everything Sherlock loves is about to be ripped from him again, so soon after it has returned.

Sherlock turns the bike, crashing through the flimsy fence.

“MOVE!” He rushes towards the fire, shoving people aside. “JOHN! JOHN!” It’s his dream again, only this this time it’s real, and Sherlock won’t wake up, safe in his bed. People start to scream as they realizes what’s happening. Sherlock reaches the woodpile, digs through it, pushing the flaming wood aside. The flames bite and lick at his hands, but he ignores them. John, where is John? Sherlock spots a head of sandy hair, a face with dried blood trickling down the side. He grabs John’s shoulders, pulls him out onto the cool grass.

“John, John can you hear me?” Sherlock cradles his face in his hand, pats his cheek gently. Sherlock takes a hold of his wrist, feels for a pulse.

There is one. Sherlock breathes a sigh of relief. He does not know what he would have done if there hadn’t been.

A voice, hoarse from smoke. “Sherlock?”

.............................................................  


Back at 221B, John sits by the fire and thinks. Why him? Had whoever drugged him been trying to get to Sherlock through him? Did this have to do with the underground network? And if they _were_ trying to get to Sherlock, why him?

 _The same reason your name was on that list_ , a voice whispers in his mind. Did he really mean so much to Sherlock? Yes. John realizes, he’s seen it in the way Sherlock smiles at him, the way he goes out of his way for him, even now, when John practically refuses to touch him. John spent the last two years imagining Sherlock. His voice, calling him from the other room. Don;t go there John. John can’t help it and succumbs to the memories.

_After Sherlock fell from the roof of Saint Bart’s, John returned to 221B. He hugged Mrs. Hudson, sobbing in the hallway. The Government was there too, standing quietly in the kitchen. He says something about a funeral. A funeral? Who for? John had just heard Sherlock in his bedroom, complaining about having nothing to wear. He had been in the taxi too, muttering in John’s ear about the cabbie’s affair. Had he John? John can’t really remember. He must have been. He couldn’t have been. It’s suddenly too quiet in 221B. The air is pressing down on him, suffocating him._

_Later that day, John decides to leave 221B. Mycroft finds him a small one bedroom flat in Surrey._ What about Sherlock?

_“I’ll be fine, John,”Sherlock yells from the other room. John finds that odd. When he leaves, he takes the bottle of shampoo from the bathroom. He doesn’t think Sherlock will miss it. He almost takes the persian slipper, too. Something stops him._

_The new flat is quiet, small, tiny. It reminds John of his old flat, the one before he met Sherlock. Why did he ever leave 221B? John knows why, but refuses to acknowledge it._

_When John returns from the funeral, he sits down on his bed and stares at the wall._ Who’s funeral? _John doesn’t know. Doesn’t want to. The sound of padded feet. The rustle of silk. The smell of shampoo. John gets up, searches the flat. No one. He knew there would be no one, just like he knows that Sherlock is dead, but he can’t accept it. Won’t acknowledge the fact._

_John goes on with his life. Working at a new hospital, with new people. The same routine every day. He sees Sherlock some days. Sees him in the kitchen, sees him standing by the window. He’s always in his suit, the one he wore on the roof that day. Sometimes he’s wearing a coat. It’s the middle of summer. John doesn’t dare ask why. One day, he almost does._

_“Sherlock-”_

_Sherlock turns, locks those piercing eyes on John. Something is missing from them, John realizes. What’s missing is the bright gleam in his eyes, the life, the laughter. These eyes are empty, cold._

_And John knows. This is not Sherlock. Sherlock has been gone for a year and a half now._

_John can’t sleep that night._

_He still hears Sherlock but doesn’t see him. And each time, he has to remind himself that Sherlock is dead, gone._ He’s not coming back, _he reminds himself over and over._

_Until the day he does._


	4. Chapter 4

“...which wasn’t the way I’d put it at all. Silly woman. Anyway, it was then that I’d noticed it was missing. I said, “Have you checked down the back of the sofa?” ” His parents are on the couch. Sherlock’s been listening to them for the better part of an hour. He wants to scream. John has disappeared down to the shops again. Sherlock sincerely hopes he hasn’t been kidnapped again. The experience had been terrifying. Sherlock was startled by the intensity of it. Was this how John felt when he saw Sherlock on the roof that day? Did his heart seem to stop beating as he watched his best friend fall? Sherlock had laid on the pavement, forcing himself to stay still. He listened as John rushed over to him, heard the pain in his voice. Watched John’s world fall to pieces before his eyes. It almost killed him.

“Why don’t you get a chain – wear ’em round your neck?” And he says, “What – like Larry Grayson,” the woman is saying.

Sherlock takes a deep breath, stands. “So did you find it eventually? Your lottery ticket?

“Well, yes, thank goodness. We caught the coach on time after all. We managed to see, er, St Paul’s, the Tower ... but they weren’t letting anyone in to Parliament.”   
Sherlock turns, frowns.

“Some big debate going on,” she continues. 

The living room door opens, and John makes his way in with the groceries. 

“John!”

“Oh-Sherlock, if you’re busy I can-”

“No no, they were just leaving.”

“Were we?” The woman stands, gestures to her husband.

“Yes.”

“Well, we’re here ‘till Sunday, remember.”

“Yes, wonderful. Get out.” Any second now, Sherlock thinks. He tries to slam the door as they exit but is stopped by his mother’s shoe. She glances around before quietly saying,

“Oh Sherlock, I can't tell you how glad we are. All that time people thinking the worst of you.

Sherlock leans back, glances at John, who has just discovered the toes in the fridge.

“Sherlock!’

His mother continues, leans closer. “Tell him Sherlock.”

“Te-tell him what?” He knows exactly what this is about. 

“Tell him you love him. I’ve only been around him for five minutes, but I can already see-”

Sherlock gives the door another slam, but her foot still won’t move.

“I can’t.” Sherlock feels lost. “I can’t tell him, he can’t ever know. Things are fine.”

His mother tilts her head, looks at him, and there is sadness in her eyes. She reaches up to stroke his cheek.

“Tell John, Sherlock. Trust me. And it wouldn't hurt to call more often. Promise?”

“Promise,” says Sherlock, but to what, he can't say. He closes the door behind him, turns to face John. “Sorry about that.”

“No, it’s fine. Clients?”

A pause.

“Just my parents.”

“Your parents.”

“In town for a few days.”

John walks over to the window, looks out. “Those were your parents?”

“Mycroft promised to take them to a matinee of “Les Mis.” Tried to talk _ me _ into doing it. Yes. of course they’re my parents.” He glances at John.

“They’re just so..so... _ ordinary, _ I guess.”

Sherlock smiles. “It’s a cross I have to bear.” John smiles. Sherlock’s missed this, this easy banter between the two of the. He finally asks a question he’s been dying to for ages.

“You’ve shaved it off then? The moustache?”

“Wasn’t working for me.” An echo of a previous conversation with a different person. Years ago.

“Mm. I’m glad.”

“What, you didn’t like it?” Sherlock can tell John already knows the answer to that. Maybe that’s why he shaved it. The same reason...no. John is not.... Is he? Sherlock pushes the thought aside.

 

“No,” says Sherlock. A glimmer in his eye. “I prefer my doctors clean shaven.” John coughs. 

“That’s not a sentence you hear every day,” he says. He moves across the room, settles down in his armchair, squashes the Union Jack cushion.

“John, when Moran got on that train he never got off.”

“Yes.” John already knows this, doesn’t see why Sherlock needs to repeat it. 

“It’s an  _ underground  _ network. That train left with seven cars and it only came back with six. That means that it have to disconnected somewhere. According to all the maps, there’s no place it could have, but it’s the only possible solution.”

“You need more data,” John says. 

Sherlock reaches for his laptop. 

They learn that there’s a old station that has never been used. It directly beneath the Palace of Westminster. 

“So what’s down there-a-a bomb?” John frowns. “Oh,” because Sherlock is already heading out the door. 

As they head to Westminster Station in the back of the cab, John thinks. How easily they’ve slipped back into their old life. But there’s something that’s still lying between them. He supposes it’s the fact that he still hasn’t fully forgiven Sherlock. He will though, but the hurt is still too fresh, too new. It’s complicated and frustrating, and John honestly doesn’t know what he thinks of the whole situation. Maybe he’s scared that if he forgives Sherlock, he’ll end up saying things that aren’t meant to be said. Things that should stay hidden. 

They arrive at the station. Sherlock pulls out a crowbar and proceeds to (rather illegally) break into a closed off area of the station and suddenly they’re far underground, wandering in the maintenance tunnels. When they reach the abandoned station, there’s nothing there. Sherlock paces, agitated. 

There’s no signal on John’s phone. 

Suddenly Sherlock stops pacing, looks at John with wide eyes, and John knows that he has the answer. Sherlock hops down into the tunnel,  of onto the tracks, and John has no choice but to follow. 

“Isn’t this you know-live?” John gestures at the tracks. 

“As long as you don’t touch the tracks you should be fine.” Well. That’s not very reassuring. 

A little farther down the tracks, the light from Sherlock’s torch falls on something fastened to the wall above them. The breath catches in John’s throat. 

“Demolition charges.”

The carriage is only a few yards away. They circle the carriage, looking for something, anything. Cautiously stepping into the carriage, they look around. 

“There’s nothing here,” says John. “It’s empty.” Obvious. Nothing there except for an abandoned tube car and two men all alone on the dark. John isn’t frightened, not at least until Sherlock says,

“Wait.” His fingers trace a wire down beneath the sheet cushions. His feet tap a loose board. The pieces are coming together in John’s head now, and with a growing amount of horror he realises, “This is the bomb” Sherlock whispers. He lifts a cushion, reveals anwired explosive beneath it. John tears off the rest after cushions, and there’s explosive after explosive. He takes a deep breath. 

“We need bomb disposal.”

Sherlock pries up the loose floorboard, revealing a massive bomb underneath. 

“Did you call the police,” John continues. Of course he hasn’t. The thought comes almost before the words are out of his mouth. He’s Sherlock Holmes, of course he hasn’t called the police. 

“There might not be time for that.” The toner is frozen at 2:30. 

“So what do we do?” John is barely breathing, his breaths coming short and shallow.  _ Deep breaths _ , he tells himself. 

“Can’t we— can’t we rip the timer off or something?” A desperate attempt, he’s not even sure if it would work. 

“No, that would set it off.” Sherlock sounds panicky as well, something John has almost never heard him before. “Don’t you know?”

John wants to strangle the man. “I wasn’t in bomb disposal,” he says through gritted teeth, “I’m a bloody doctor.”

“And a soldier, as you like to remind us.”

“Well don't you know something?”

“Why me?”

“Because you're Sherlock Holmes, you're as clever as it gets.” All John's frustration at Sherlock is pouring out on this one conversation and he can't help it. 

The lights in the carriage suddenly turn on, the timer starts counting down. 

“Er…” Sherlock stares at the timer. 

“Oh my God. Why didn't you call the police, why do you  _ never _ call the police?!”

“It's no use now.”

A pause.  

“Go John.”

What?

“Go, now while there's still time.”

“There's no  _ point  _ now is there, and if we don't fix  _ this _ ,” he gestures at the bomb, “ other people will die!”

Sherlock looks lost, defeated. John feels angry, frustrated. Yet at the same time he also feels strangely calm. At least, he thinks, of he does here, he won't have to live a life without Sherlock. He can't go down like this though. He can't just give up. He searches around for something anything, grasping at straws. 

“Mind Palace. Use your mind palace.”

“What, you think I've just got “How to Diffuse a Bomb” tucked away in there?” 

_ “Try.” _ John is desperate, searching wildly for an answer. 

Sherlock shuts his eyes, hands at his temples. John can see his brain working at a million miles an hour. He lets out a groan of frustration, opens at eyes,looking at John with frightened, helpless eyes. 

“Oh my god.”

Sherlock tears off his scarf, falls to the floor, begins looking a the bomb, desperately trying to find something. After a moment he sits back. 

“I'm sorry, John.” There are tears in his eyes, and he's looking at John like he's lost. 

John closes his eyes, turns away. He can't look at Sherlock, not now. This brilliant beautiful man who has given John everything is now going to be lost yet again. John's going to be dead too, so he supposes it doesn't really matter. What hurts the most, John thinks, is that no one else will ever know Sherlock as he did. They'll remember the cold detective, the machine. They won't know the Sherlock who sits with John by the fire eating take away, the Sherlock who suffered through movie nights with John and laughed about them afterward. 

“I'm sorry.” The words are so quiet John aost doesn't hear them the first time. 

John turns, looks at him. “What?”

“I'm sorry, John...I...I can't do it. Please, forgive me.” John knows what he's asking.  Of course he forgives Sherlock, of course he does. He just wishes they had more time. There are things that shouldn't be said. And there are things that are. John decided to begin with an echo. 

“You were the best man,” he begins.  His voice is thick, and to his surprise there are tears forming in his eyes. “You were the the best, and the wisest man, that I have ever known.Of course I forgive you.” The relief is obvious in Sherlock eyes, and he gives John a watery smile. “And there's something I meant to say, tried to say even, but I never have.” He move over, sits next to Sherlock on the bench. Takes a deep breath. This is his last chance. “Sherlock, you mean everything to me, I want you to know that, and I want you to know that...that I love you.” His voice breaks on the last word. 

Sherlock stares at him. Blinks. States some more. 

“I love you too, John,” he whispers. Then he's throwing his arms around John, pulling him close. John takes a deep breath, buries his face in Sherlock shoulder, and waits. The tears are sliding silently into the fine wool of Sherlock’s coat.   _ I want him to be the last thing I see,  _ John thinks. 

Sherlock is shaking he realises. Fear? He pulls back. Sherlock is  _ laughing.  _ A bolt of horror shoots through John. Was his speech really  _ that  _ terrible. Then he glances at the timer. It's flickering at 1:30.

“Oh my god,” he manages. “Oh my god.” 

He sees lights at the end of the tunnel. 

“And you did call the police.”

“Yes, of course I did.” Sherlock looks incandescently happy, he realises. He smiles at John, and John, despite everything, smiles back. He doesn't know how tomorrow will be, doesn't know how everything will turn out. He does know, that right now, he has Sherlock, and that's all that matters. 


	5. Chapter 5

Back at 221B Sherlock watches John read the paper. It's the day after the train incident and he's been thinking. Watches as John mulls over the comic, flattening the Union Jack pillow in the process. A tangle of emotions are swimming through his head.

 _Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock._ Shut up, Mycroft.

When Sherlock fell from the roof of Saint Bart’s that day he realized that he loved John Watson. The feeling was terrifyingly sudden, overwhelming. He thought about getting back to John every day for those two years. He also did his best to squash the emotions before they grew too large.

 _Sentiment._ Shut _up,_ Mycroft.

John, sitting in his chair, all soft jumpers and warm smiles. That's what most people see. Quiet. Unassuming. Sherlock knows the quiet power John hides, the strength and courage. He was in the army after all.

The feelings Sherlock are currently experiencing are terrifying. Overwhelming, all consuming. He doesn't know what to do with them. He loves John, he knows that. It terrifies him. How far would he go for him? He's already died once. Must he die again?

John shuffles in his chair, rustles the newspaper. Sherlock needs to talk to him about this. About _them._

“John.” It’s not a question, but it’s not a statement either. It is hope, tethered by a fragile string. Cobalt eyes meet his from across the room. Questioning.

“Yes, Sherlock?”

“We need to talk.”

“Us.”

A sigh.

“I thought that was pretty clear already.” It’s not.

“What are we?” _Boyfriends? Lovers? Significant others?_ Sherlock doesn’t have a word to describe them, not really. They are certainly more than friends, the previous night had made that clear. Even before Sherlock had fallen, they had always been something more. Walking the fine line between friends and...something else. _Partners. Soulmates._ These words come close, but Sherlock thinks that no words will ever describe what he has with John.

“We’re... I don’t know what we are Sherlock, but I do know, that I want to spend the rest of my life with you. I want to see you in the mornings at the breakfast table, with your hair ruffled and sleepy eyed. I want to hold your hand as we walk through the park. I want to chase criminals with you in London as long as possible. I want to watch crap telly with you as you shout at the screen. I want to hold you as you sleep. I want to see you smile, the way you do when you smile for me. The left side of your mouth turns up, and your eyes turn warm. I want to see that smile every day.”

The speech is so sudden and heartfelt Sherlock feels his throat begin to close up, his nose and eyes start to sting. Mycroft would be disgusted, but Sherlock doesn’t care. He couldn’t care any less what his stupid brother thinks.

“And I,” he says, ‘want to watch you make breakfast. I want to make you coffee in the mornings and take care of you when you’re sick. I want us to laugh as we watch Jim Bond-”

A small smile creeps up John’s face.  
“-and I want to give you all sorts of stupid romantic presents, like getting you new jumpers that aren’t hideous and perhaps a new laptop. I want to- I could buy the surgery for you John. I would do it in a heartbeat for you. You wouldn’t have to worry another day. I want to watch the stars with you at night, and play you to sleep with my violin. I want...you. From this day...until my last.”

 

                                   

There are tears in John’s eyes. He thinks he can see them in Sherlock’s too.  He sets the newspaper down,stands up, stretches out his muscles. The Union Jack pillow is a bit flat. Oops. He takes a step forward. Sherlock looks up at him, almost visibly trembling. With what? Fear? Hope?

“Let’s take a walk,” John says.

There is ice cream at a shop down the street. Dinner at Angelo’s. Sherlock seems to glow, and John looks at him with warm eyes. He holds Sherlock’s hand across the table, and Sherlock grasps it, keeps rubbing his thumb over it, as if it will disappear in a heartbeat.

The night air is warm, the air sweet, and the skies clear as they walk around Regent’s park. They sit down on a bench, and gaze at what stars they can see. It’s not many, but there’s some.

“Beautiful, isn’t it,” Sherlock says, and John smiles. He turns his head, and watches Sherlock gaze at the stars. He’s almost impossibly beautiful tonight, his face seeming to shine with the moonlight, inky curls falling softly above his eyes. Eyes that seem to hold the stars in them. That’s what John thinks at least. He could stay here all night, John thinks, watching this wonderful, brilliant man whom he loves with all his heart. Sherlock leans against him, his head dropping to John’s shoulder. John puts his arm around Sherlock, holds him tight. Feels Sherlock’s deep breaths against his side, soft curls against his cheek. They stay like that for a long while.

There isn’t a word to describe what they have. Maybe there never will be. They just are. Sherlock and John. John and Sherlock. As they should be.


End file.
